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A  DISSERTATION  UPON 
ROAST  PIG 


/ 


/ 


DIS 
SERTA' 

rio:Nb 

UPOK 
RQASl^ 
PIG 


One  oi  til 


ofELIA 

Witk   a  Note   on. 

LAMB'S  LITER  B 
ARYMOriVE 

\>Y   CyRU^  LauR_01sL 


Hoo 


PEP^ 


m 


m 


LAMB'S  LITERARY  MOTIVE 


LAMB^S  LITERARY 

MOTIVE 


HE  spirit  the  age 

I  has,  to  pry  into  the 

consciousness  of 

men,  tracing  their 

motives  from  fir^ 

causes,  through 

various  activities, 

to  ultimate  efFedts,  may  vv^eU  be  pro^ 

nounced  hazardous  i£  one  hopes  to 

find  absolute  truth.  The  method  mu^ 

b 


be,  originally,  subjedlive;  &  finally  oh^ 
jedtive;  tke  two  manners  frequently 
crossing  and  returning  one  upon  tke 
other,  making  possible  many  errors 
in  the  labor  of  projedting  one's  ^ates 
o£  consciousness  into  another.  For, 
obviously,  the  thinker  may  mii^ake 
his  own  mental  idiosyncrasy  for  a 
general  psychic  lav/,  and  thus  err  in 
his  projedtion;  or  he  may  be  v/hoUy 
ignorant  of  vital  facfts  of  his  subjedt's 
mind,  may  exaggerate  some,  mini^ 
mize  others,  thus  v/idely  misconceive 
ing  the  total  consciousness  under  his 
scalpel.  Such  dissedtion  is  naturally 
harmless  on  the  bodiless  creations  of 
fidlion,  detradting  only  from  the  Avri^ 
ter's  merit:  but  in  the  case  of  hi^orical 
8 


or  literary  cKaradters,  harm  mayfoh 
low;  and  the  grain  of  salt  mu^  there^ 
fore  be  at  the  reader's  hand. 

A  theory  I  heard  of  the  underlying 
cause  of  a  certain  man's  vagaries  is 
to  the  point.  This  man,  a  preacher 
known  widely  for  a  keen  intelledl  and 
a  fine  oratorical  manner,  v/as  in  his 
social  relations  as  much  a  provoker  o{ 
laughter  as  in  the  pulpit  a  mover  of 
profound  and  serious  thinking.  Un^ 
heard  of  practical  jokes  and  unminis** 
terial  violations  of  the  proprieties 
were  his  daily  pradtices.  On  one  oc** 
casion,  at  a  hotel  table,  he  slipped 
some  spoons  into  the  pocket  of  a  fel*' 
low  preacher,  &  afterward  contrived 
to  discover  them  to  the  crowd  in  the 


lobby,  seeming  to  enjoy  tbe  embar** 
rassment  caused.  AltKougk  such  an** 
tics  "were  accepted  by  his  friends  as 
evidences  o£  good  fellov/ship  and 
buoyant  spirit,  he  did  not  receive 
^vith  equal  good  nature  the  practical 
joke  of  ^svhich  he  v/as  the  vidtim:  he 
became  angry,  and  seemed  to  lose  en** 
tirelyhis  sense  of  humor.  This  ^vasre^ 
called  afterv/ard,  ^vhen  he  died  sud*' 
denly  of  heart  disease;  and  an  effort 
^vas  made  to  account  for  his  incon** 
sii^ency.  Some  one  vv^ho  kne^v  him 
^vell  explained  that,  knov/ing  o{  his 
disease,  and  not  kno^ving  ^vhat  mo** 
ment  might  be  his  end,  he  had  as  a 
motive  for  his  pranks  the  necessity 
of  a  mental  adlivity  so  simulating 

lO 


and  diverting  as  to  drive  away  all 
thoughts  of  death,  but  that  v/hen  the 
tables  ^ve^e  turned  upon  him,  the  ac 
tivity,  not  being  his  own,  but  anoth** 
er's,  afforded  him  no  such  relief.  The 
theory  seemed  ingenious,  but  it  ^svas 
only  a  theory,  and  in  the  making  of  it 
there  ^vere  the  chances  of  error  al^ 
ready  set  do^vn. 

No^v  in  the  case  of  those  v/ho  put 
to  paper  immortal  v/ords  for  our  de** 
light,  we  are  not  content  to  read  and 
enjoy;  we  mu^  needs  know  the  why 
and  the  vv^herefore  of  literary  motive, 
v/hether  the  purpose  were  moral, 
philosophic,  pure  art,  or  v/hat  not. 
The  fir^  &  the  second  of  these  afford 
no  challenge  to  us,  their  very  nature 

II 


making  them  plain  and  open;  but  the 
third,  revealing  of  itself  no  utility, 
calls  loudly  upon  us  to  ask  the  cause 
of  its  bringing  forth.  How  did  the  au*" 
thor  happen  to  conceive  his  thought? 
^Vhat  brought  into  his  brain  a  con*^ 
ception  so  unique?  and  hov/  did  it 
happen  to  be  wrought  in  lines  so  fine 
and  enduring? 

'  'A  Dissertation  upon  RoaiA  Pig''  is 
one  of  those  that  offer  the  challenge, 
and  in  its  company  are  all  the  essays 
of  Elia — more  particularly  those  of  so 
i^ridlly  a  personal  nature  as  to  ^artle 
the  reader,  as  ''Dream  Children/' 
This  note  of  personality  is  indeed  the 
key  to  ^w^hat  appears  to  the  v/riter  as 
the  secret  of  Lamb's  literary  motive. 

12 


In  the  essay  ju^t  mentioned,  kownat^ 
urally  does  Elia  dra^v  the  picture  of 
his  teUing  his  children  evening  Tories 
of  their  great'^grandmother  Field!  — 
how  she  lived  in  a  great  house  full  of 
delightful  associations;  how  good  she 
was;  how  accomplished.  And  who 
that  does  not  know  of  Lamb's  love  of 
a  fair  AKce  &  of  his  Ufelong  bachelor^ 
dom,  can  help  being  deceived  by  the 
simple  ^atement,  ''Here  Alice  put 
on  one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks'7 
At  the  end  the  reader  is  ^artled  at 
seeing  the  two  children  gro\v  fainter 
to  the  viev/,  leaving  in  their  places 
''the  effedts  of  speech,"  thus:  "V/e 
are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are 
we  children  at  all.    The  children  of 

13 


AKce  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are 
nothing,  less  than  nothing,  &  dreams. 
We  are  only  v/hat  might  have  been, 
&  mu^  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores 
of  Lethe  miUions  of  ages  before  we 
have  exiiAence  and  a  name.'' 

The  personality  of  it!  And  of  many 
other  of  the  Elia  essays !  For  although 
Lamb  is  always  trying  to  deceive  his 
reader  by  changing  the  names  &  rela^ 
tionships  of  his  charadlers,  by  warp^ 
ing  this  or  that  fadl  into  an  unrecog** 
nizable  form,  and  then,  contrarily, 
deceiving  as  Avell  v/ith  the  truth  un** 
expedledly  given,  he  is  al^svays  true  to 
his  personal  view  of  people  &  things, 
and  gives  it  ^svith  an  accuracy  that 
causes  the  reader  to  wonder  how  he 
14 


could  have  gained  his  consent  so  to  re* 
veal  himself  and  those  deare^  to  him. 
The  que^ion  finds  an  answer,  per^ 
haps,  in  Lamb's  compelled  effort  to 
diredt  his  thoughts  away  from  the 
taint  of  madness  that  afflidted  his 
house, — the  madness  that  had  over* 
taken  him  "when,  conceiving  his  duty 
to  be  to\vard  his  si^er,  he  had  given 
up  the  hope  o(  his  Alice's  love;  the 
madness  that  drove  this  silver  to  kill 
her  own  mother.  ''I  am  got  some* 
what  rational  now,  &  don't  bite  any 
one.  But  mad  I  ^vas!''he  ^vrote  to 
Coleridge,  when  recently  come  out 
of  what  proved  to  be  his  only  attack 
of  the  family  malady.  Mary's  mad- 
ness was  alw^ays  present — a  shadow 

c  15 


tKat  dimmed  tKe  sunligkt  of  their 
lives.  Charles  gave  himself  the  Kfe*^ 
long  duty  of  ^vatching  over  her,  of 
smoothing  the  rough  places  in  her 
path;  but  too  often  the  path  led  across 
the  fields  to  the  house  w^here  he  took 
her  ^vhen  the  dreaded  attack  could  be 
warded  off  no  longer,  &  thither  they 
went  hand  in  hand,  and  in  tears .  Then 
the  lonely  apartments  for  Charles, 
after  his  v/ork  at  the  office,  and  days 
and  ^veeks  in  the  shado^sv.  Doubtless 
it  is  inevitable  that  in  such  circum^ 
dances  any  human  mind  mu^  medi** 
tate  unresi^ingly  upon  the  trial  of  the 
moment,  &  thus  itself  sink  into  mad*' 
ness,  or  by  sheer  force  o{  will,  or 
drink,  drive  itself  into  v/holly  foreign 
i6 


regions  of  thought;  or,  finding  as  arc 
sultant  bet^veen  the  two  contending 
forces  a  line  o£  thought  betsveen  the 
other  tv^o,  escape  both  madness  and 
the  necessity  o£  forcing  an  unconge** 
nial  or  artificial  ^ate  of  mental  adtiv^ 
ity .  Thus  the  ^ate  attained  becomes 
the  diagonal  of  the  parallelogram.  In 
Lamb's  case,  it  ^vas  pleasurable  rem** 
iniscence  lying  betsveen  thoughts  of 
the  family  taint  on  the  one  side  and 
the  freedom  from  such  thoughts  he 
sought  in  conviviality. 

Such  pleasurable  reminiscence  is 
everywhere  in  the  Essays  of  Elia,  and 
it  is  foreshadov/ed  in  the  poem  of 
which  the  following  is,  I  think,  the 
mo^  significant  ^anza : — 


''GIio^4ike  I  paced  round  tKe  haunts 
of  my  cKildKood. 

EartK  seemed  a  desert  I  was 

bound  to  traverse,  (faces/' 

Seeking  to  find  tke  old  familiar 
TKe  necessity  o{  seeking  relief  from 
sorrow^ in  suchof  kis  pai^  as  was  pleas^ 
urable,  appears  in  Kis  letters  as  well 
as  in  tKe  essays.  He  ^svrote  to  Cole* 
ridge,  ''Mary,  in  consequence  of  fa* 
tigue  and  anxiety,  is  fallen  ill  again, 
and  I  vv^as  obliged  to  remove  Ker  yes* 
terday .  I  am  left  alone  in  a  Kouse  witK 
notKing  but  Hetty's  dead  body  to 
keep  me  company/'  (Hetty  Avas  an 
old  servant  wKo  Kad  ju:^  died.)  ''To* 
morro^v  I  bury  Ker,  tKen  I  sKall  be 
quite  alone  v/itK  notKing  but  a  cat  to 
i6 


remind  me  that  the  house  has  been 
full  o£  living  beings  like  myself.  My 
heart  is  quite  sunk,  and  I  don  t  know 
w^here  to  look  for  relief  Mary  will 
get  better  again,  but  her  con^antly 
being  liable  to  these  attacks  is  dread** 
ful;  nor  is  it  the  lea^  of  our  evils  that 
her  case  and  all  our  i^ory  is  so  well 
known  around  us.  \Ve  are  in  a  man* 
ner  marked.  Excuse  my  troubling 
you,  but  I  have  nobody  by  me  to  speak 
to  me.  I  slept  out  la^  night,  not  being 
able  to  endure  the  change  &  the  ^ill*' 
ness;  but  I  did  not  sleep  well,  and  I 
mu^  come  back  to  my  own  bed.  I  am 
going  to  try  and  get  a  friend  to  come 
and  be  with  me  to'^morrow.  I  am  com" 
pletely  shipwrecked.      My  head  is 

^9 


quite  bad.  I  almoiA  wish  that  Mary 
^ve^c  dead/'  And  a  little  later,  ^vrit'^ 
ing  to  Kis  friend  Manning,  the  friend 
mentioned  as  ''M/'  in  ''A  Disserta'^ 
tion  upon  Roai^  Pig'\  he  says  that  he 
is  about  to  change  his  lodging.  ''I  have 
partly  fixed  upon  most  delectable 
lodgings,''  he  says,  ''which  look  out 
(when  you  ^and  a  tip'^toe)  over  the 
Thames  &  Surrey  Hills,  at  the  upper 
end  o{  King's  Bench  Walks  in  the 
Temple.  There  I  shall  have  all  the 
privacy  o£  a  house  ^vithout  the  en^ 
cumbrance,  and  shall  be  able  to  lock 
my  friends  out  as  ofi:en  as  I  desire  to 
hold  free  converse  ^th  my  immortal 
mind — for  my  present  lodgings  re** 
semble  a  miniiAer's  levee,  I  have  so 
20 


increased  my  acquaintance  (as  they 
call  'em)  since  I  have  resided  in  town. 
....  By  my  new  plan  I  sKall  be  as 
airy,  up  four  pair  of  ^airs,  as  in  the 
country,  &  in  a  garden  in  the  midi^  o£ 
enchanting  (more  than  Mohammed** 
an  paradise)  London,  ^vhose  dirtied 
drab-'frequented  alley,  and  her  lo^v^ 
e^'^bo^ving  tradesman,  I  \vould  not 
exchange  for  Skiddaw,  Helvellyn, 
James,  Walter,  and  the  parson  into 
the  bargain.  O!  her  lamps  of  a  night! 
her  rich  goldsmiths,  print^'shops,  toy* 
shops,  mercers,  hard^vare  men,  pas^ 
try *'cooks,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  the 
Strand,  Exeter  Change,  Charing 
Cross,  w^ith  the  man  upon  a  black 
horse!  These  are  thy  gods, O  London! 

21 


Ain  t  you  migktily  moped  on  the 
banks  of  the  Cam?  Had  you  not  bet** 
ter  come  and  set  up  bere  ?  You  can't 
tbink  ^vbat  a  difference.  All  tbe 
Greets  and  pavements  are  pure  gold, 
I  v/arrant  you.  At  lea^,  I  know  an 
alcbemy  tbat  turns  ber  mud  into  tbat 
metal — a  mind  tbat  loves  to  be  at 
bome  in  crov^ds.'' 

For  it  v/as  in  tbese  cro^vds  tbat 
Lamb  v/as  born;  &  bis  keeneiA  pleas^ 
ure^vas  tbe  recording  of  bis  contem^* 
plations  of  tbem.  His  preference  was 
for  tbe  city,  but  tbe  loving  toucbes 
are  found  too  in  v/bat  be  wrote  o£ 
country  life  as  be  bad  seen  it.  But 
wbetber  city  or  country  v/as  bis 
tbeme,  be  ^vrote  of  it  in  tbe  ligbt  o£ 

22 


his  o^vn  personal  experience;  i  that 
he  could  do  this  was  the  essence  o£ 
his  genius  as  v/ell  as  his  line  of  safety 
between  madness  and  the  waging  of 
his  Hfe  in  conviviality.  This  literary 
habit  of  pleasurable  reminiscence  ap** 
pears  in  all  its  lightness  in  the  lAory 
of  Ho^ti  and  Bo^'bo  and  the  delightful 
cuhnary  dissertation  that  follows. 
Here  are  the  happy  memories  of 
many  fea^s — the  spiritual  expression 
of  materiali^ic  joys.  The  taskofAvrit** 
ing  it — if  the  writing  of  an  essay  of 
such  seeming  spontaneity  could  have 
been  a  task — could  have  been  done 
only  by  one  long  accustomed  to  think 
lovingly  over  pa^  experiences  and  to 
write  them  more  for  his  own  pleasure 
d  23 


tKan  for  that  of  others.  It  ^vas  in  seek** 
ing  his  escape  from  his  tragic  pa^  that 
he  endeared  himself  to  the  English 
race. 


24 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON 
ROAST  PIG 


ADIS 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON 
ROAST  PIG 

ANKIND,  says 
a  Chinese  manu" 
script,  wKicK  my 
friend  M.  \vas  O'* 
bliging  enough  to 
read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the 
fir^  seventy  thousand  ages  ate 
their  meat  raw,  clav/ing  or  bit** 
ing  it  from  the  Hving  animal, 
ju^  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to 
this  day.  This  period  is  not  ob** 
scurely  hinted  at  by  their  great 


Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of 
his  Mundane  Mutations,  ^vkere  he 
designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the 
term  Cho'^fang,  literally  the  Cooks' 
Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to 
say  that  the  art  of  roaiAing,  or  rather 
broiling  (^svhich  I  take  to  be  the  elder 
brother),  was  accidentally  discover^ 
ed  in  the  manner  following:  The 
s\vineherd,  Ho'^ti,  having  gone  out 
into  the  v^oods  one  morning,  as  his 
manner  v/as,  to  coUedl  ma^  for  his 
hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his 
elde^  son,  Bo^'bo,  a  great  lubberly 
boy,\vho,  being  fond  of  playing  \vith 
fire,  asyounkers  of  his  age  commonly 
are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bun** 
die  of  Ara^v,  which  kindling  quickly 
28 


spread  the  conflagration  over  every 
part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was 
reduced  to  ashes.  Together  v/ith  the 
cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  make*' 
shift  of  a  building  you  may  think  it), 
v^hat  was  of  much  more  importance, 
a  fine  Ktter  of  new^farro\ved  pigs,  no 
less  than  nine  in  number,  perished. 
China  pigs  have  been  ei^eemed  a  lux^ 
ury  all  over  the  Ea^,  fi:om  the  remote 
e^  periods  that  v/e  read  of  Bo^'bo^vas 
in  the  utmo^  con^ernation,  as  you 
may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake 
of  the  tenement,  ^vhich  his  father  and 
he  could  easily  build  up  again  with  a 
fe^v  dry  branches,  and  the  labor  of  an 
hour  or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the 
loss  of  the  pigs .  While  he  w^as  thinking 

29 


what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and 
wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking 
remnants  of  one  of  those  untimely 
sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  no^rils, 
unlike  any  scent  ^svhich  he  had  before 
experienced.  What  could  it  proceed 
from?  not  from  the  burnt  cottage,  he 
had  smelt  that  smell  before ;  indeed, 
this  was  by  no  means  the  fir^  acci^ 
dent  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred 
through  the  negligence  o£  this  un** 
lucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less  did 
it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb, 
Aveed,  or  flov/er.  A  premonitory 
moi^ening  at  the  same  time  over^ 
flowed  his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not 
what  to  think.  He  next  looped  dow^n 
to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  ^vere  any  signs 
30 


o{  life  in  it.  He  burnt  Kis  fingers,  and 
to  cool  tKcm  he  applied  them  in  his 
booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  o£ 
the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had 
come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for 
the  fir^  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's 
life,  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man 
had  known  it)  he  ta^ed— CRACK*' 
LING !  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at 
the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much 
noNv,  j^ill  he  Kcked  his  fingers  from 
a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at  length 
broke  into  his  slow  under^anding, 
that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and 
the  pig  that  ta^ed  so  delicious;  and 
surrendering  himself  up  to  the  new"^ 
born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up 
whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin 
e  31 


with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cram** 
ming  it  down  his  throat  in  his  beai^ly 
fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid 
the  smoking  rafters,  armed  v/ith  re** 
tributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  af^ 
fairs  ^ood,  began  to  rain  blo^vs  upon 
the  young  rogue's  shoulders,  as  thick 
as  haili^ones,  which  Bo^'bo  heeded 
not  any  more  than  i{  they  had  been 
flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  v/hich  he 
experienced  in  his  lov/er  regions,  had 
rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  in^ 
conveniences  he  might  feel  in  those 
remote  quarters.  His  father  might 
lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat  him  fi:om 
his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end 
of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more 
sensible  of  his  situation,  something 

3^ 


like  the  following  dialogue  ensued: 

''You  graceless  whelp,  v^Kat  Kave 
you  got  there  devouring?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  dov/n 
three  houses  v/ith  your  dog's  tricks, 
and  be  hanged  to  you !  but  you  mu^ 
be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what — 
v/hat  have  you  got  there,  I  say?" 

'"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig !  do  come 
and  ta^e  hownice  the  burnt  pig  eats/' 

The  ears  o{  Ho^ti  tingled  w^ith  hor^ 
ror.  He  cursed  his  son,  and  he  cursed 
himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a 
son  that  should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo^bo,  whose  scent  ^svas  wonder^ 
fijlly  sharpened  since  morning,  soon 
raked  out  another  pig,  &  fairly  rend^ 
ing  it  asunder,  thru^  the  lesser  half 

33 


by  main  force  into  the  d^s  o{  Ho^^ti, 
lAill  shouting  out,  ''Eat,  eat,  eat  the 
burnt  pig  father,  only  tai^e—O  Lord! '' 
— with  such^'like  barbarous  ejacula** 
tions,  cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he 
v/ould  choke. 

Ho^ti  trembled  every  joint  ^w^hile 
he  grasped  the  abominable  thing,  wa^ 
vering  Avhether  he  should  not  put  his 
son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  young 
monger,  ^svhen  the  crackling  scorch^ 
ing  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's 
and  applying  the  same  remedy  to 
them,  he  in  his  turn  tailed  some  of 
its  flavor,  v/hich,  make  v/hat  sour 
mouths  he  would  for  apretense,prov*' 
ed  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him. 
In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript 

34 


here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father  and 
son  fairly  sat  dov^n  to  the  mess,  and 
never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched 
all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo^bo  w^as  ^ridtly  enjoined  not  to 
let  the  secret  escape,  for  the  neighbors 
would  certainly  have  ^oned  them 
for  a  couple  of  abominable  \vretches, 
who  could  think  o£  improving  upon 
the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent 
them.  Nevertheless,  Grange  Tories 
got  about.  It  was  observed  that  Ho** 
ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  no^v 
more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing 
but  fires  from  this  time  forv/ard. 
Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day, 
others  in  the  night^'time.  As  often  as 
the  so^v  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the 

35 


House  of  Ho^'ti  to  he  in  a  blaze;  &  Ho^ 
ti  himself,  wKich  w^as  the  more  re^ 
markable,  in^ead  of  cha^ising  Kis 
son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent 
to  him  than  ever.  At  length  they 
v^ere  ^vatched,  the  terrible  myi^ery 
discovered,  and  father  and  son  sum^* 
moned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin, 
then  an  inconsiderable  assize  to^vn. 
Evidence  v/as  given,  the  obnoxious 
food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  ver^ 
didl  about  to  be  pronounced,  w^hen 
the  foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that 
some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  w^hich  the 
culprits  lAood  accused,  might  be  hand** 
ed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and 
they  all  handled  it;  and  burning  their 
fingers,  as  Bo^bo  and  his  father  had 

36 


done  before  them,  &  nature  prompt** 
ing  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy, 
again^  the  face  of  all  the  fadts,  &  the 
cleared  charge  ^vhich  judge  had  ever 
given, — to  the  surprise  of  the  v/hole 
court,  townsfolk,  Grangers,  report** 
ers,  and  all  present — ^vithout  leaving 
the  box,  or  any  manner  o£  consulta** 
tion  ^vhateve^,  they  brought  in  a  sim*' 
ultaneous  verdid:  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  v/as  a  shre^vd  feh 
low,  v/inked  at  the  manife^  iniquity 
of  the  decision;  and  ^vhen  the  court 
was  dismissed,  went  privily  &  bought 
up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for 
love  or  money.  In  a  fe^v  days  his  Lord" 
ship's  tovv^n^'house  \vas  observed  to  be 
on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  &  now 

37 


there  was  notKing  to  he  seen  but  fires 
in  every  diredtion.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew 
enormously  dear  all  over  the  di^ridt. 
TKe  insurance'^offices  one  and  all  skut 
up  skop.  People  built  sligkter  &  sligkt** 
er  everyday,  until  it^vas  feared  tkat 
tke  very  science  of  arckitecture 
v/ould  in  no  long  time  be  lo^  to  tke 
Avorld.  Tkus  tkis  cu^ona  of  firing 
kouses  continued,  till  in  process  o£ 
time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  a^ 
rose,  like  our  Locke,  \vko  made  a  dis:^ 
covery  tkat  tke  flesk  of  sv/ine,  or  in** 
deed  of  any  otker  animal,  naigkt  be 
cooked  (burnt,  as  tkey  called  it)  w^itk^ 
out  tke  necessity  o£  consuming  a 
wkole  kouse  to  dress  it.  Tken  firiA 
began  tke  rude  form  of  a  gridiron. 

38 


Roaming  by  the  ^ring  or  spit  came  in  a 
centuryor  two  later,!  forget  in  whose 
dynasty.  By  such  slov/ degrees,  con^* 
eludes  the  manuscript,  do  the  mo^ 
useful,  &  seemingly  the  mo^  obvious, 
arts  make  their  v/ay  among  mankind. 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith 
in  the  account  above  given,  it  mu^  be 
agreed  that  if  a  ^vorthy  pretext  for  so 
dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting 
houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these 
days)  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of  any 
culinary  objedl,  that  pretext  and  ex^ 
cuse  might  be  found  in  ROAST  PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  \vhole 
mundus  edibilis,  I  w^ill  maintain  it  to 
be  the  mo^  delicate — princeps  obso-" 
niorum. 

f  39 


I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers 
— things  between  pig  &  pork — those 
hobbledehoys — but  a  young  and  ten** 
der  suckhng — under  a  moon  old — 
guiltless  as  yet  of  the  i^y ,  with  no  orig** 
inal  speck  of  the  amor  immunditias, 
the  hereditary  failing  of  the  firi^  par** 
ent,  yet  manifei^ — his  voice  as  yet 
not  broken,  but  something  between 
a  childish  treble  and  a  grumble — the 
mild  forerunner  or  praeludium  of  a 
grunt. 

HE  MUST  BE  ROASTED.  lam 
not  ignorant  that  our  ance^ors  ate 
them  seethed,  or  boiled — but  what  a 
sacrifice  of  the  exterior  tegument! 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I 
^vill  contend,  to  that  of  the  crisp, 
40 


tawny,^vell''Avatched,notover^roa^*' 
ed,  CRACKLING,  as  it  is  well  call- 
ed, the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their 
share  of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet 
in  overcoming  the  coy,  brittle  resi^** 
ance,  v/ith  the  adhesive  oleaginous — 
O  call  it  not  fat!  but  an  indefinable 
s^veetness  grooving  up  to  it — the  ten- 
der blossoming  of  fat — fat  cropped  in 
the  bud — taken  in  the  shoot — in  the 
fir:^  innocence,  the  cream  and  quin- 
tessence o£  the  child^'pig's  yet  pure 
food,  the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of 
animal  manna,  or,  rather  fat  and  lean 
(if  it  mu^  be  so)  so  blended  and  run- 
ning into  each  other,  that  both  togeth- 
er make  but  one  ambrosian  result  or 
common  sub^ance. 

41 


BcKold  Kim  vv^Kile  he  is  doing — it 
seemetK  ratker  a  refresking  ^va^^lth, 
tKan  a  scorching  Keat,  tKat  he  is  so 
passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirh 
etk  round  tke  ^ring !  — Now  he  is  ju^ 
done.  To  see  the  extreme  sensibi^ 
ity  of  that  tender  age!  he  hath  wept 
out  his  pretty  eyes — radiant  jellies — 
shooting  lAars. 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cra^ 
dle,ho^svmeekhelieth!  wouldi^thou 
have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to 
the  grossness  and  indocility  ^vhich 
too  often  accompany  maturer  s^ne** 
hood?  Ten  to  one  he  would  have  prov** 
ed  a  glutton,  a  sloven,  an  ob^inate, 
disagreeable  animal,  v/allowing  in  all 
manner  of  filthy  conversation,  from 
42 


these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched  a^ 
way — 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorro^w  fade. 
Death  came  with  timely  care — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown 
cu^seth,^vhilehis  ^omachhalfrejed:«» 
eth,  the  rank  bacon — no  coal-heaver 
bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages — he 
hath  a  fair  sepulchre  in  the  grateful 
^omach  of  the  judicious  epicure,  &  for 
such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 
He  is  the  be^  of  Sapors.  Pineapple 
is  great.  She  is  indeed  almo:^  tran** 
scendent — a  delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet 
so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender^ 
conscienced  person  would  do  well  to 
pause ;  too  ravishing  for  mortal  ta^e, 

43 


she  woundetK  and  excoriateth  the 
hps  that  approach  her;  Kke  lovers' 
kisses,  she  biteth;  she  is  a  pleasure 
bordering  on  pain  from  the  fierceness 
and  insanity  o£  her  relish — but  she 
i^oppeth  at  the  palate;  she  meddleth 
not  v/ith  the  appetite,  and  the  coars** 
e^  hunger  might  barter  her  consi^^ 
ently  for  a  mutton^^chop. 

Pig,  let  me  speak  his  praise,  is  no 
less  provocative  of  the  appetite  than 
he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness 
of  the  sensorious  palate.  The  i^rong 
man  may  batten  on  him,  and  the 
weakhng  refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  char** 
adters,  a  bundle  of  virtues  and  vices, 
inexplicably  intertwined,  and  not  to 

44 


he  unravelled  without  hazard,  he  is 
good  throughout.  No  part  of  him  is 
better  or  worse  than  another.  He 
helpeth,  as  far  as  his  Kttle  means  ex** 
tend,  all  around.  He  is  the  lea^  en** 
vious  of  banquets.  He  is  all  neighbors' 
fare. 

I  am  one  of  those  ^vho  freely  and 
ungrudgingly  impart  a  share  o£  the 
good  things  of  this  life  v/hich  fall  to 
their  lot  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind) 
to  a  friend.  I  prote^  I  take  as  great  an 
intere^  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his 
relishes,  and  proper  satisfadtions,  as 
in  mine  own.  ''Presents,'  I  often  say, 
''endear  Absents."  Hares,  pheasants, 
partridges,snipes,barn^doorchickens 
(those  " tame  villatic  fowl"),  capons, 

45 


plovers,  bravv^n,  barrels  of  oy^ers,  I 
dispense  as  freely  as  I  receive  tbem. 
I  love  to  ta^e  tkem,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a  ^op 
mu^  be  put  somewhere.  One  vv^ould 
not,  like  Lear,  ''give  everything.''  I 
make  my  lAand  upon  pig.  Methinks 
it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all 
good  flavors  to  extra^'domiciliate,  or 
send  out  of  the  bouse  slightingly  (un** 
der  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know- 
not  ^svhat)  a  blessing  so  particularly 
adapted,  predei^ined,  I  may  say,  to 
my  individual  palate. —  It  argues  an 
insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience 
in  this  kind  at  school.    My  good  old 
aunt,  \vho  never  parted  from  me  at 
46 


the  end  of  a  holiday  without  buffing 
a  sv/eetmeat,  or  some  nice  thing,  into 
my  pocket,  had  dismissed  me  one 
evening  v/ith  a  smoking  pluna^'cake, 
fresh  from  the  oven.  In  my  way  to 
school  (it  was  over  London  Bridge)  a 
gray^headed  old  beggar  saluted  me  (I 
have  no  doubt,  at  this  time  of  day, 
that  he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no 
pence  to  console  him  w^ith,  and  in  the 
vanity  of  self  denial,  &  the  very  cox^ 
combry  of  charity,  schoolboy  like,  I 
made  him  a  present  of— the  whole 
cake !  I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up, 
as  one  is  on  such  occasions,  v/ith  a 
sweet  soothing  of  self  satisfaction; 
but,  before  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  my  better  feelings  returned, 

g  47 


and  I  bur^  into  tears,  thinking  how 
ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good 
aunt,  to  go  &  give  her  good  gift  away 
to  a  Granger  that  I  had  never  seen 
before,  and  who  might  be  a  bad  man 
for  aught  I  knev/;  and  then  I  thought 
of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  v/ould  be 
taking  in  thinking  that  I — I  myself, 
and  not  another — v/ould  eat  her  nice 
cake,  and  w^hat  should  I  say  to  her  the 
next  time  I  sav/  her;  how  naughty  I 
v/as  to  part  \vith  her  pretty  present! 
and  the  odor  of  that  spicy  cake  came 
back  upon  my  recolledlion,  and  the 
pleasure  and  the  curiosity  I  had  taken 
in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her  joy 
v/hen  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how 
disappointed  she^vould  feel  that  I  had 
48 


never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth  at 
la^ — and  I  blamed  my  impertinent 
spirit  of  alms^'giving,  and  out'^of'place 
hypocrisy  of  goodness;  and  above  all 
I  wished  never  to  see  the  face  again 
of  that  insidious,  good^'for^^nothing, 
old  gray  impo^or. 

Our  ance^ors  Avere  nice  in  their 
method  of  sacrificing  these  tender 
vicAims.  We  read  of  pigs  v/hipt  to 
death  with  something  of  a  shock,  as 
we  hear  of  any  other  obsolete  cus" 
tom.  The  age  of  discipline  is  gone  by, 
or  it  would  be  curious  to  inquire  (in 
a  philosophical  light  merely)  what  ef^ 
fedt  this  process  might  have  towards 
intenerating  &  dulcifying  a  sub^ance 
naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the 

49 


flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  re** 
fining  a  violet.  Yet  we  should  be  cau** 
tious,  while  we  condemn  the  inhu** 
manity,  how  we  censure  the  ^vis^ 
dona  of  the  pradtice .  It  might  impart 
a  gui^o. 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued 
upon  by  the  young  ^udents,  \vhen 
I  w^as  at  St.  Omer's,  and  naaintained 
with  much  learning  and  pleasantry 
on  both  sides,  ''Whether,  supposing 
that  the  flavor  of  a  pig  Avho  obtained 
his  death  by  whipping  (per  flagellar* 
tionem  extremam)  superadded  a 
pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man 
more  intense  than  any  possible  suf 
fering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal, 
is  man  ju^ified  in  using  that  method 
50 


of  putting  the  animal  to  deatk?''  I  for** 
get  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered. 
Decidedly,  a  fe\v  bread'^crumbs,  done 
up  with  his  Kver  and  brains,  and  a 
dash  of  mild  sage.  But  banish,  dear 
Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole 
onion  tribe.  Barbecue  your  ^vhole 
hogs  to  your  palate,  lAeep  them  in 
shalots,  lAuff  them  out  with  planta^ 
tions  of  the  rank  &  guilty  garlic;  you 
cannot  poison  them,  or  make  them 
Wronger  than  they  are— but  consider, 
he  is  a  weakling — a  flower. 


^1 


Here  ends  ''A  Dissertation  upon 
Roai^  Pig'  by  CKarles  Lamb,  one  o£ 
the  essays  v/KicK  fir^  appeared  in  tke 
London  Magazine  under  the  name  of 
Elia  and  Kere  reprinted  from  the  firi^ 
edition  (i823)\vitK  an  introduction  on 
''Lamb's  Literary  Motive'  by  Cyrus 
Lauron  Hooper.  Printed  in  tbe  Vil** 
lage  type  at  Tbe  Village  Press,  Park 
Ridge,  Illinois,  by  Fred  W.  &  Bertka 
M.  Goudy,  and  finished  February  29, 
1904 — tbe  third  book  issued  from  the 
Press. 


5^ 


215  copies  printed,  200  for  sale. 


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